


Prey

by NSFL



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drug-Induced Sex, F/M, Rape, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NSFL/pseuds/NSFL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt on Dragon Age Kink Meme:<br/>...A darker/AU version of Blackwall who doesn't regret the events of the past and only took on the Blackwall persona to avoid execution.</p><p>...Where Blackwall is obsessed with the Inquisitor, but she won't give him the time of day (for whatever reason).</p><p>...He gets her alone and drugs her with something that leaves her unable to fight or use magic but heightens pleasure, then proceeds to use every means at his disposal to force her to orgasm over and over, all while shaming her for "enjoying" everything he's doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't rapey yet. It's heading there. Thom Rainier is a nasty piece of work, when you think about it. Even conscripted unarmored villagers to help him kill his own men when they tracked him down at the lake where you meet him. So what's he do when he wants what he can't have? He gets it.

He watched her.

He was always watching her.

Across the courtyard, the Inquisitor stood with Solas, deep in discussion. The taller elf stood straight-backed, hands laced lightly behind him, his head tipped slightly toward the Inquisitor. She gestured as she spoke, an elegant sweep of finger and hand describing an arc. Even in the bright sunlight it was possible to see the flare of magic that accompanied the gesture.

Solas shook his head, his brows quirking downward in an expression of faint irritation, one hand closing over hers.

He wanted to kill the elf. For touching her. For bringing the slightly shamed expression to her face. She should be looking up at him like that, eyes wide with guilt, fair skin touched with a hint of shy pink. Fine strands of fiery red hair slid forward, licks of fire that stroked her cheek. He imagined it might burn, the heat of that red and gold and copper hair, when he knotted a fist in it and drove her to her knees. Or held her head between his large hands, forcing her head forward, her mouth around his cock.

His attention to her was so intense, he detected the minute her attention on Solas flickered. Instantly he bent his head, focusing on the carving in his hands. She had the instincts of one of her Dalish kind. She had sensed him from time to time, staring at her. He was careful never to let her catch him at it. Everything depended on maintaining his façade, the illusion that he was nothing more than Warden Blackwall, her devoted companion.

The problem was he wasn't Warden Blackwall. He was Thom Rainier.

And the pretense was starting to piss him off.

Solas's sharp rebuke wasn't discernible, though he raised his voice enough for it to be audible. Blackwall risked a glance upward without lifting his head. Her attention was back on her instructor. Solas contented himself with a frown. Thom would have punished her far more harshly for her wandering attention.

A slap across that soft cheek, perhaps. He'd have to pull most of his strength. He wouldn't want to break bones, just snap her head around. Enough to make her skin redden. To make her look shocked. A little frightened at his easy strength and mastery of her. Maybe just a hint of silvery tears in those wide, multicolored eyes.

Resolutely, he looked down at his carving again. It wouldn't do to drift too far into fantasy, not while looking at her. She might catch him at it. She undoubtedly would, sooner or later. He wasn't such a fool to think he could stare and stare and not be seen. 

But a few simple slips would be forgiven, written off. He was her good friend, Blackwall. He had saved her life in battle, fought at her direction. She saw what he wanted her to see. What he wanted them all to see.

Still, he knew he couldn't keep up his mask forever. It would slip. It had to. It would simply have to be at a moment and place of his choosing, that's all. He was a soldier, born and bred, a leader of men. He didn't have a thought that wasn't tactical. He knew how to plan.

How to wait.

How to hunt.

There had to be a way. If she were any other elf, he'd just take her. Shove in her into a room, pin her bent over a piece of furniture and force his cock into her. Elves were always tiny, tight around him. He didn't think she'd be any different.

Except that she was different. She wasn't a servant. She would speak up. She would complain. And that would be the end of his new life.

He'd thought about getting her alone on one of their expeditions, but she always took three people with her, never just one. Never just him.

He could wait in her room and overpower her. It wouldn't be difficult. Mage or no, mark or not, he was confident in his skills. He'd have to beat her half unconscious, though, and that wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want her unresponsive and bloody. He wanted her legs around his hips, wanted her eyes glazed with pleasure and heat as he thrust in her. 

Wanted the flash of pain and fear in her eyes when he mastered her, just enough to have her recognize exactly how helpless she was, how he could take from her anything he wanted. He wanted to see it dissolve into one helpless flush of pleasure after another, his mouth on her nipple…

With a snarl, he stalked back to the stables. He had to do something, anything except keep thinking of her.

 _Blackwall,_ he reminded himself. _You're Warden fucking Blackwall._ He kept repeating it. He couldn't fuck this up, not after coming so far. He'd just have to find someone else to fuck, he decided, climbing up to the loft he used as his quarters, to burn off some of this. Flissa, maybe. She was a redhead, too. That might help. She was nobody now, a serving girl. She'd probably even like it a little rough. Bar wenches were used to—

She was in his room.

The inquisitor stood at the wide double doors, meant for bringing in hay off the loaded tops of wagons, and looked over the courtyard. Less than ten feet away from his bed. 

Blood roared through his veins, pounded in his ears. He could take her now, shove her up against the wall, rip her shirt open. Fuck her right there, in full view of the entire blighted Inquisition…

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to intrude. I just had to get away for a bit, but I didn't want to be alone."

He struggled with himself, smashed and bashed his emotions back under control.

She turned a little when he didn't speak, uncertainty writ plain on her elegant features. "Do you mind? I can go."

"No," he growled.

Her concern dissolved into a faint smile, a curve on those soft pink lips. "You sound about as happy with the world as I feel. You could tell me what's troubling you. It might take my mind off my own worries."

 _Warden Blackwall._ "Or add to them," he said, walking closer. "You were talking to Solas."

"Mm. Yes." With a sigh, she turned away again. He stepped to one side, casually leaning against the door opposite her. Staring at her. "I don't understand him. One of my own people, a mage as well. You'd think we'd understand each other better than anyone."

She shook her head a little, sunlight flaring against her hair, picking out strands of hidden gold amidst the fire. "No, I suppose he understands me just fine. Who is he really, do you think?"

He wasn't thinking about what she said, hadn't even heard it really. He was too busy watching her mouth shape words, watching how it shifted with her butterfly moods: sad, wry, pensive.

"What do you mean?" he asked when he realized she'd stopped talking.

"He's no Dalish. How does one of the people come to be a wandering, itinerate mage? For all that he doesn't dress in finery, he has better manners than… than Josephine. He's well-read, probably better than Dorian." 

She scuffed a toe through the loose straw underfoot and looked down at it, folding her arms under her breasts, lifting them, drawing her shirt tight over them. The fastening between them puckered and gaped just a little. Not enough to let him see under it, not quite. "He isn't what he seems, of that I'm certain. Was he taken in by some wealthy family?" She sighed. "And yet, he doesn't seem to approve of my attempts to fit in."

"Fit in?" he repeated blankly. He had to pay attention to what she was saying. Had to. 

She glanced over at him, a sidelong flirt of wide eyes rimmed by thick lashes. "I do have to, you know. Otherwise I'd go insane here, stuck behind so many walls. Oh, it's gotten better. And of all things, Solas helps with that, the discomfort of being here I mean. He doesn't seem to mind the walls so much. And, do you know, I think he actually likes seeing me sit on that absurd throne passing judgment on people?"

She shook her head rapidly. "Oh, Fen'Harel take him, anyway. Will he, won't he, does he, doesn't he. The whole thing is absurd!" 

She kicked at the straw. 

Abruptly, her other foot went out from under her, sliding on the slick shafts of dried straw. Her arms reached for balance, grabbed nothing but the air, and she toppled into the opening.

Blackwall sprang toward her, his hand wrapping around her bicep and yanking her into him.

She caught herself against his chest, her body tight against his. Wide eyes, full of fear and shock, looked up at him.

He forgot to breathe. He could feel the slender length of her against him. Her hands rested on his chest, her breasts soft and full. Her hips barely brushed his, but the touch was like a bonfire on his skin. Even her legs were tangled with his. All that held her upright was his grip on her, the easy flex of his bicep.

His hand tightened around her arm. His fingers slowly dug deeper into her skin.

And she didn't move.

"Be careful," he said, low and husky. "It can be dangerous to climb so high."

Uneasily, she nodded, got her feet under her. When she pulled away, he let her go.

She glanced back at him once as she headed toward the ladder down. The disquiet in her eyes had not abated. Then, just a flicker of light, lithe movement, and she was gone.

He walked slowly back to his bed, determined not to watch her cross the courtyard.

She knew.

She didn't know what she knew, but she knew.

She knew because she was a wild thing, as kin to the elven servants he'd taken in the past as a halla to a cow.

She knew because she was prey.

And he was her hunter.


	2. Chapter 2

Blackwall stood in the wine cellar of Skyhold and stared at the bottles.

The Inquisitor had a fascination with the Grey Wardens, perhaps because the Hero of Ferelden was an elf mage like she was. It was a fascination Blackwall traded on for both position and power within the Inquisition, and it was the only possible explanation for the bizarre collection. Random bottles of random alcohol, supposedly kept by random Grey Wardens. No two bottles had the same mix, all drips and dribbles of tail ends of other bottles of liquor. The one thing they all had in common was their supposed potency.

And potent liquor was what he needed.

He stared at the bottles.

Liquor. Strong liquor, not simple ale or wine. Distilled spirits. That was the key, according to the drunken ex-Templar. 

Liquor. Lyrium. Blood Lotus.

Such a simple recipe.

And every ingredient, right here in Skyhold.

She had grown skittish around him. He only noticed because he knew her, knew her habits, her comings and goings. Knew where she liked to lean on the parapet, where she escaped to eat her lunch, knew about her late-night perambulations around the Keep. He knew the way she tilted her head when she was angry, the paleness of her skin taut with fear after a fight, the curve of her smile when she greeted a friend.

Of late, none of her smiles had been for him. They would fade a little, wilt like a forest flower in the direct light of the sun. Her gaze would skitter away from him, and her slender fingers would dance around each other in uneasy rhythms.

He was still included in her raids, in the missions she took. The last one had taken them away from Skyhold for a week while she searched that desert shithole for some sacred temple or other. She and Solas had huddled together for hours on end, discussing the shards. She remained fixated on that skinny, pretentious, barefooted vagrant for no reason he could understand. Solas was distant. Cool. Even cruel, from time to time.

Maybe she liked that. There were women who did.

The long discussions between the elves had left him plenty of time to get to know the Inquisition soldiers stationed at the various camps. One of whom was a Templar with a slightly unsavory reputation. Nothing that would cause Commander Cullen to turn away an experienced warrior, not when said warrior was also sincere in his desire to help seal the breach and save the world.

But unsavory enough to get sent away from Skyhold after some complaints by female mages? Oh yes. Certainly that.

It had only taken a few hours to get him to spill his secrets to Blackwall. A few hours of subtle reassurances, hints of favors and possible reassignment to a much better location, and not an inconsiderable amount of drink. 

It amused Blackwall to think that they were basically the same tactics the Templar had practiced on his targets in the mage circles.

_"If it were that easy, everyone would know about it," he said, watching the Templar lift the mug to drink._

_The snort came with a spray of liquor. ""s not that easy, friend. They rationed it, didn't they? Never got even a little…" He held thumb and forefinger pinched close together and squinted at them. "A little speck more'n your ration. If you wanted to drug a mage, you hadda give up some of your ration. Leave you short."_

_He sat back, shaking his head. "Wasn't worth it, was it? Always some mage wanting to give it up for some privilege or other. Let you fuck 'em for a night outside the tower. Wasn't worth the shakes and headaches of going without."_

_The former Templar grinned, a nasty expression that made Blackwall want to punch his teeth into the back of his head on principle. "But it works. One glass, and I could have any of 'em."_

One glass, and he could have her.

He stared at the bottles.

She would enjoy it, the Templar had been convincing on that point. The lotus pollen would see to that while the lyrium carried both it and the liquor deep into her body, making the mixture ten times as effective as it would be on a non-mage.

All it would do, really, was drop the walls. Take away the part of her that insisted sex was bad, dispel the bigotry that kept her focused on an elf when he was right there. 

Once he'd had her, she would see. She would understand what it was to be an elf woman. She wouldn't be the prudish, stuck-up, frigid bitch she was now. She would even want it again. Everything wanted to be put to its proper use.

She would like it. She would love it. He'd spend the entire night making her love it, showing her what it meant to be a fucking woman, every way that her body could respond to him, would obey him. Every way she would cum for him.

He snatched a bottle off the wall and stalked from the room.

 

Two more weeks were nothing. It could take time to set up the perfect kill. He had spent two weeks doing his best to ignore her utterly, to give time to her roused instincts. To let them settle. He remained keenly aware of where she was, what she did, but fought a constant battle against the urge to hurry, to seize his newfound advantage.

For two weeks, he trained to exhaustion against any soldiers who would spar, just to get to sleep each night. For two weeks, every night he relived the feel of fragile bones and supple curves. He remembered strands of her silken hair tangled in his beard, pulling free with the most delicate slide. He remembered the feel of her heart hammering in her chest. The catch in her breath. Her lips parted, just a glimpse of white teeth and pink tongue.

He wondered if he had left bruises on her arm.

Yesterday, during a card game in the tavern, she had smiled at him. Just a quick grin that included him in the general laughter after one of Varric's stories. He hadn't let his attention linger, had forced himself to help Sera back into her seat.

But that was his signal, his sign.

She had relaxed her guard.

He sat at a table in the hall. This late at night, it was all but deserted. Most of the torches were out. Only the fire behind him gave warmth to the room. The loudest sound in the place was that of glass over wood as he rolled the bottle of liquor across the table with the flat of his hand.

It didn't glow now. He wondered if that meant the potency had dulled. It had at first, for an hour or so. But he had reasoned through his uncertainty; no one would ever get someone to drink a glowing liquor. The tampering was too obvious. 

His palm flattened, rolling the bottle away. Curling his fingers rolled it back toward him. Flat, away. Curl, toward.

The pollen hadn't wanted to dissolve. It had floated on top of the liquor even after vigorous shaking. Now, thoroughly soaked through, it would still separate out and float to the bottom. That didn't worry him, not after experimentation had proven that a quick shake would leave the tiny golden particles thoroughly mixed again.

Flat, away.

He had considered testing it on another mage, but they had all been in circles at one point or another. They might know the drink. They might recognize the signs. He was too close now, too close to having her to let some weepy, dramatic female ruin his plan.

No. This drink, this bottle, was only for her. He would simply have to be careful, observant. To be sure she was under its influence before he took her.

Would it be obvious, he wondered? Would she throw herself at him? No, even drunk that would not be her style. She would invite him to take. She would find an excuse to loosen the fastenings on her shirt. Find reasons to touch him, brush against him. She would lean forward, encouraging him to look at the pale swell of her breasts. Her eyes would be hungry, her smile slow and knowing. And when he reached for her—

"Blackwall?"

Curl, toward.

"Inquisitor," he said after a moment, glancing up at her and then back at the bottle.

"I can't decide if you're going to drink from it or hit someone with it," she said.

"Beg yer pardon?"

"The bottle. You've been staring at it for the better part of half an hour now."

Carefully, he told himself. He had drawn her from hiding. If he closed the trap too quickly, she would bolt. "I suppose I haven't decided myself."

She took a half-step closer. "Is that one of the bottles from the cellar?"

"Yes," he said. "A Warden's bottle."

"I suppose if anyone's entitled to use one, you are."

He didn't answer her. Woman and mage, she had a double helping of curiosity. As long as she sensed no threat and he gave her no direct answers, she would linger. Come closer. Ask more questions. Tangle herself in the trap he was crafting around her line by line.

"Is it a special bottle?" she asked. "Did you know that warden?"

Flat. Away. The label displayed. "Never met her," he said.

She looked down at the bottle, then had to sit to read it. "Warden Beverly Hawke." She looked up at him. "I remember when we found this. Varric said that she was sister to the Champion."

He didn't answer.

She softened her tone, lowered her voice. "Is something the matter?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You've been… a little distant, lately. All day today your attention has been elsewhere. And now you sit here alone, in the hall, staring at a bottle without drinking. So I ask. Is something the matter?"

He scowled to hide his laughter. She was making this almost too easy. "Traditions," he said after a long moment of silence. "Maybe they don't fucking matter anymore."

He started to curl his fingers.

Her hand dropped over his.

He froze. She said something else, something he didn't quite hear over the abrupt hammering of his heart. Something about importance?

Tactics. Strategy. He leaned hard on training and experience, and turned the bottle upright, taking his hand out from under hers. "One night a year," he said, keeping his eyes on his hand, "Grey Wardens drink to their fallen. No one gives a damn about dead Wardens but other Wardens. That's the job. We fight and die so other people don't have to. But once a year, we remember them."

He angled the bottle bottom toward her, top toward him, so he could see her reflection without looking up. She was staring at him, that much he could tell. 

"Usually, I drink alone. This year, with all the Wardens, I thought…" He shook his head and left it there. Sad and stern, that was good. Pathetic was not.

He set the bottle upright with a thump, met her gaze head-on. "Drink with me, Inquisitor."

She blinked, sat up a bit straighter. "Me? I'm no Warden."

"No. But you're the Inquisitor. You stand by us and with us. Anyway, you're the closest fucking thing there is in this place."

Her eyes widened just a bit, the line of her shoulders softened. "I'd be honored," she said.

There was one mug on the table. One. That had been an essential detail, necessary to make her think the offer was spontaneous. He opened the bottle and poured a generous amount, pushed the mug toward her and kept the bottle for himself.

She wrapped her hands around it, lifted it to sniff. "That's horrible," she said.

"You're not supposed to sniff it," he chided. "It's not a fucking flower, is it?"

"I suppose not. How does this go? Do we tell stories or drink to people?"

"Usually, we just get drunk. We're not really a chatty bunch."

"You fit right in, then," she said. She started to lift the mug.

"Don't sip it," he warned her. "It'll fry your teeth."

She glanced at him, those multi-colored eyes shining like tumbled gems in the glow of the fire. With one more wary sniff of the drink, she did as he suggested and tossed it back.

He heard the snap of the trap closing.

She did not.

He drank as well, partly to hide his avaricious smile. The pollen would affect him, he knew that already, but he was no mage. One taste, just enough to give his breath the scent of it, to make her believe he drank as she did. It would heighten the pleasure he was about to take in her body, but not make him senseless with it.

And he needed to stay alert.

She could still escape.

She could still run.

He lowered the bottle, watched her sputter and cough. How much was enough? How much was too much? The Templar had said too much was not good, rendering her all but senseless and that wasn't what we wanted. But too little, and she might still try to fight him off. Worse, might remember trying to fight him off.

She shook her head, firelit hair shimmering around her face. "Gods, that's terrible," she gasped. "How can you stand that?"

"I just think about what went into it," he said blandly.

Wrinkling her nose, she set the mug back on the table.

At a slight angle. 

She corrected, set it down flat.

"I can't imagine how anyone drinks it," she said, blinking away involuntary tears.

He didn't respond.

He watched.

One of her hands drifted toward her head, then stopped mid-way. "Oh," she said faintly. "It's… quite strong."

"Are you all right, Inquisitor?" he asked softly.

"I don't… I'm not…"

He stood, shoving back the bench. Her head snapped up to follow the motion. She shifted in her seat, weaving slightly as the sudden change threw her balance off even seated. 

"Come on," he said, his voice gruff as he fought to control his growing impatience. "Let's get you to your room."

"Yes, that might be best," she said, easing herself to her feet. "I'm sorry. Did I ruin things?"

"No," he assured her, risking a hand on her back. Just to keep her steady. Just to help. "This is exactly right."

"Oh good." She meandered toward the far door in the hall, the one that led to her tower room.

She didn't pull away from his hand, didn't edge farther from him. If anything, her slight weight increased. She was leaning into the touch.

He ground his teeth together, fought for control. Not yet. Soon now.

When he leaned around her to open the door, he let his hand on her back slide down slightly to the base of her spine, just above the curve of her ass.

"Thank you," she said.

"My pleasure."

She didn't move, just looked up the stairs. Then she laughed a little as if the sight were impossibly amusing. "It's just that there are so very many of them," she explained, flashing a smile at him.

"You'll fall and break your neck," he said, more for anyone that might be listening than for her. His confidence was growing; he could probably follow her up the stairs and she wouldn't question it. But he knew that bitch Vivienne was close enough to hear, and who could say how many others. "Come on, I'll see you safely to the top."

"Such a good Grey Warden," she said, patting his chest. Then she turned away, oblivious to the tenseness of his muscles, and started up the stairs one careful step at a time.

He stepped in behind her, closing the door quietly behind him.

He watched her climb.

He locked the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe she would fall and land in his arms.

He followed her up the stairs. She moved slowly, carefully, one hand on the wall. He watched the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass in those soft leather pants.

"I really don't feel at all well," she said.

He ignored it. His palms itched to trace that curve, to see her flesh turn pink after a slap. Her skin was pale; his handprint would be vivid and large.

Finally, they made it to the top. She stumbled a little but managed to catch herself on the arm of a low couch. There, she paused. Bent over.

Enough.

He slid his hands over her hips, stroked her ass with the hard bulge of his cock. The heat and softness of her was almost enough to make him cum. He drew in a slow, deep breath.

She straightened, and he didn't fight her. There was time. There was all night for this.

Now she remembered being cautious of him. He could see it in her eyes as she glanced back at him, though the movement cost her her balance. Her eyes were fuddled but worried, delicate brows drawn together. "I should sleep," she said, trying to slip away from him.

"Soon," he said. "Later." He didn't let go of her, though he did let her turn. A flex of his arms brought her back against him.

She tried to pull away, but she wasn't strong and the liquor was doing its job well. Her hands flattened against his chest. 

He savored it, this moment, this last bite of anticipation. One arm around her waist held her easily. He slid his other hand deep into her hair, tangling his fingers in the fine, shimmering mass. The callouses on his hands and fingers caught individual strands. He curled his fingers into a fist and dragged her head backward.

Staring down at her muzzy anger, her dazed fear, he smiled.

"Let me go," she said, eyes widening as she began to realize, to understand.

He bared his teeth. "No."

He kissed her.

Her words were formless sounds, lost in his mouth. He didn't care. They were meaningless. What mattered was how soft her lips were, warm and yielding under his. He forced them wider, tasted the silky sweetness of her tongue, the hot sting of the aftertaste of liquor.

Her hands fisted in his shirt. He felt her draw in a breath, prepare to fight him, and shifted his weight against the attempt. Blight take that drunken idiot of a Templar. This wasn't what he wanted. Maybe she hadn't had enough? Had he not used enough of the lotus? Maybe he should…

Her mouth moved under his. Just a fraction. Her clenched fingers loosened.

Testing, tasting, Thom traced the curve of the inside of her lips with the tip of his tongue.

Her sharp inhale was clear, as was the sudden press of her body against his.

He had to know.

He pulled away, looked down at her.

Fear, yes. Anger, still. But confusion dominated now.

Good.

"Felt that, did you?" he murmured, releasing his iron grip on her hair to stroke the curve of her neck.

She shivered, her eyes fluttering. "Stop," she said, her voice breathy and shaking.

He didn't bother to reply to that. Instead he dropped his hand to her breast, felt the perfect curve of it fitting into his palm. His thumb stroked over her nipple.

And Maker, her reaction.

Her lips parted, drawing in one long breath. She closed her eyes, arched her back, offered herself up to him. Her hands fell away from him, landing on the arm of the couch to support herself. Her legs had given out.

Oh, he was going to find that fucking Templar again and give him his own camp. His own castle.

He smiled, lazy and slow, confident now. The nail of his thumb traced circles against her nipple. She tried, oh she tried so hard to control her reactions, but though the struggle showed on her face, on the way her teeth bit into her lower lip, her hips rose and fell.

"Please," she whispered, eyes still closed, still straining into his touch. "Please stop, please Blackwall…"

And he did, but only so he could get that shirt off her. "Thom," he said as he unfastened the interlocking tabs. It was a risk, a blighted huge one, but he wasn't, couldn't be, Blackwall. Not now. Not here. Not with her.

She opened her eyes at that, tried to focus on him, to catch her breath. But she didn't stop him from opening her shirt. "What?"

Maker, her tits were perfect. Pale, how could anyone who lived outdoors as much as she had be so pale? Full and soft, rose-pink around those upthrust nipples. His thumb on the outside of her shirt had almost dropped her. He had to feel her in his mouth, had to know what she would do.

Her fist hit his shoulder, weak and ineffectual. He ignored it, wrapping a hand around her throat to push her back so he could fit his lips around one of her nipples, lick it, taste it.

Instantly, her struggles ceased. The hand that had been flailing at him dug into his hair, holding him tight. She whimpered, but all he cared about was the tender softness of her skin, the feel of her nipple as he stroked it with his tongue and drew it between his lips.

"Gods," he heard her say, her breath escaping in quick, small pants. "Gods, please stop. Please. I don't want this."

She did, though. He knew that. Her body was hot for it. He could probably slip a finger into her, find her hot and slick and wet…

But if he did that, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. He'd fuck her right there with her bent backward over the arm of the couch, and he wanted to take his time. He had her. He wasn't going to waste it.

He compromised, running a hand down her bare torso, skimming over the waistband of her pants, sliding his hand between her thighs. She clamped her knees together, but her hips lifted off the couch. Her shoulders fell back farther, pressing into the cushions, making him bend over her more. 

Thom's nostrils flared. His pulse was racing, and every breath dragged in the powder-soft scent of her naked skin. His mouth and lips teased her nipple, pulling on it, circling it. Then his fingers dipped between her legs, feeling for her clit.

Her outcry was explosive, instantaneous. Thom rode her as her hips bucked, drew her orgasm out as best he could with fingers and mouth. 

This wasn't just the drink. It couldn't be. Some fucking pollen and liquor? No, that might be enough to loosen her up, but this was all her.

He released her when her body sagged back to the couch, let her go so he could yank his shirt off over his head. She didn't move, just lay on the couch staring up at the ceiling. One of her hands lifted to her head.

"Confused?" he asked, toeing off his low, soft boots. "Why? This is what you were meant to do."

She looked down at him, down the length of her body. Her shirt still gaped open, baring those tits to him. "Get out," she said, swinging her legs off the couch. She tried to stand, failed.

She still didn't understand. She would.

He grabbed her upper arm, hauled her off the couch and back into his arms. Her soft, full breasts flattened against his bare chest. She was so delicate, so fragile. He looked down at her, held her up while she found her balance. Tears filled her eyes, spilled down her cheeks.

But that wasn't fear in her expression, not anymore. That was anger. Rage.

Impotent anger. Helpless rage. She couldn't attack him physically, probably couldn't muster the concentration to attack him magically. All she could do was feel the pleasure he forced on her. 

He wiped a tear from her cheek with a brush of his thumb, felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Poor thing. Lived a lie all her life, and the truth was hard to bear.

He kissed her again.

Her teeth latched on to his lip.

Before she could bite down, he took his hand away from her face, back to her breast, stroking her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Her mouth opened and she gasped again.

Maker, he'd never get tired of that sound.

He looked down at her expressions, at the slow dissolve of anger into frustration and pleasure. Fuck, they could hang him tomorrow and it would be worth it. He used his strength, his weight, against the pliancy of her body to move her backward toward the bed. Her feet dragged, but he set one hand on the curve of her ass and lifted her slightly, enough to move her without making her fall.

She closed her eyes, still whimpering, one hand clinging to his bicep. Green light, rift light, flared and guttered.

The silly bitch was actually trying to attack him. For what?

He shoved, knocking her backwards onto the bed. "None of that," he said, scowling. 

She tried to get up, tried to even sit up, but she fumbled at it. Her slender hands patted on the blankets, tried to find a way to help her up, tried to brace her.

Before she could figure out the trick of it, he knelt on the bed and grabbed the waistband of her pants. Pulling them down over the curve of her hips took some effort, and her body slid across the bed with them.

She dragged in a breath.

His reflexes were better than hers, especially now. Before she could scream, he slapped a hand over her mouth, and the sound of it was muffled against his skin.

"You stupid bitch," he snarled at her. "You think you're afraid of this? You're only afraid of realizing what it is you want, what you are." His other hand dropped to her crotch, fingers sliding through the curls. 

Over her muffled wail of protest, he said, "You're a fucking whore. That's all you've ever been. Even Corypheus told you the mark was a mistake. You were meant to spread your legs, take a man's cock."

He worked a finger into her, let his palm slide over her clit. She was as tight, as small as he had known she'd be. She hadn't been fucked in a good long while, that was sure, but she was so hot, so wet, she was craving it. He loved seeing her like this, fighting it, struggling not to feel what he wanted her to feel. He loved watching her fail, the involuntary shudders, the way her hips shifted, the taut line of muscle as she tried not to let them.

But she couldn't stop. He watched her hips start to rock to the rhythm he set, her eyes closed. Slowly, carefully, he moved his hand away from her mouth. She did nothing more with the freedom he gave her than drag in a long, deep breath.

"There you are," he whispered, leaning down to kiss those full, parted lips. "You see. Show you a bit of pleasure and you crumble."

With one hand free, he undid the lacings of his trousers, pushed them off his hips and stepped out of them. Getting her pants off would take two hands.

He knelt on the bed, pushed her pants farther down, to her ankles, then caught them under his knees and nudged her thighs apart.

She didn't notice. Didn't react. She was still riding his hand, tightening around his fingers as he stroked her. As he watched, one of her hands hesitantly rose from the bed, paused, then moved to her breasts. Her fingers teased over her nipple, and her breath hitched.

"Oh sweet Maker," he groaned. His cock twitched, balls tightened, painful and throbbing. He couldn't watch that, couldn't watch her bring herself pleasure. He'd cum on the bed.

Instead, he lowered his head to her crotch.

She smelled so good, a low, warm scent that hit the back of his throat and made his mouth water. The rhythm of his hand faltered as he found room for his mouth, as his tongue brushed through the damp curls between her legs.

Her hips bucked under his mouth as he found and tasted her clit. The tip of his tongue traced the shape of it, flicked over and around it. Both his hands worked at her pants, pinned under his knees. Even though his concentration was there, pulling her pants over the boots she still wore, she trembled under his tongue, filling the air with words in her Dalish language that he didn't know. He growled low and soft against her flesh as her pants finally came free. He shoved them off the bed.

Her little cries and whimpers were all in pleasure now. The little slut was knotting her hands in his hair, her knees bent and fallen open. He suckled on her clit, danced his tongue over it. He had to use both arms to hold her down as she writhed on the bed, had to hold her hips still. His mouth caught her clit, pulled it between his lips so his tongue could flicker over it. 

She tasted as good as she smelled, something dark with a hint of sweetness, like a rich wine that was made to be savored in slow sips, held on the tongue before being swallowed. He could actually feel the contractions of her orgasm. She was so easy to bring to it, she made it fucking effortless.

Maker, he wanted to draw this out, make it last, but he was rapidly losing control of himself. He had to be inside her, had to feel that sleek heat around his cock. She had felt so tiny, so tight around his fingers. He tried not to think about how it would feel to have her soft and hot around his dick, but…

Fuck it.

He slid up the length of her body, caught her lips with his, made her taste herself on his mouth. Her lips met his hungrily, eagerly. Whatever resistance she had tried to hang on to had dissolved utterly. She was his.

He held his cock in one hand, fit the head of it against her tight hole. She was tight, too tight. Too small. He pulled her knees over his shoulders, tried to hold himself back. One slow rock of his hips at a time nudged the head of his cock into her, so much slick heat easing his way.

"Yes," he growled as she wrapped around him like molten silk. Her arms held him tight, her fingers digging into his flesh as he thrust deeper into her, an inch out, an inch farther in, spreading her, taking her. "Fucking slut. Whore. Say it. Tell me how fucking bad you want it." His teeth grazed her ear. "Say it," he whispered to her.

Her only answer was a choked sob, but her hips still rose to meet his, her body saying what her mouth would not.

"Say it," he said again, pulling his head away to stare down at her. He gripped her chin hard in his hand, her skin white around the pressure of his fingertips. "Just say yes. Say yes."

Her jewel-toned eyes stared up at him, helpless, begging.

He didn't relent. One hard thrust seated him deep inside her. Slowly he withdrew and just as slow sheathed himself in her until his balls touched her skin. He groaned, long and deep. "Say yes."

Her lips moved.

He watched them, watched them open, her tongue slip across them, leaving them wet and shining. His hips rocked against her again and again, faster now. He felt his orgasm build, a tingling deep in his gut, his balls tightening. He slammed into her riding her hard and fast."Say it!" he roared.

"Yes!" she cried, her body snapping off the bed, arching into him.

His climax ripped through him, clenched every muscle in his body, locking him deep inside her. He threw his head back, mouth agape in a soundless shout. He came in her with one pulse after another, flooding her with his cum. "Yes," he managed to gasp out. "Fuck. Yes."

Abruptly, his arms wouldn't support him anymore and he collapsed on top of her, pushing her knees up to her ears. His cock twitched inside her, softening now, slipping out of her. "Good," he mumbled. "Good girl." 

She was still and silent under him. He could feel her heartbeat hammering against his chest. "Next time, maybe you won't struggle so much," he said. "So much trouble."

With a sigh of repletion, he heaved himself off her, let her drop her legs back to the bed as he sat, then swung his legs off the bed. He paused there, not yet certain he could stand. He huffed a laugh. "Worth the ride, though." Glancing back over his shoulder, he gave her an affectionate slap on her ass. She had turned her back to him, curled in on herself.

Finally he got himself up, found his pants and pulled them on, then looked for his shirt. She didn't say anything, didn't speak. Her back was still to him. He supposed she had fallen asleep. Maker knew that's what he wanted to do.

He didn't even really want to put his shoes on, but he finally stepped into them and shrugged into his shirt. Walking shirtless and shoeless through the keep would cause comment.

Thom jogged down the stairs and walked through the hall, humming a tune he half-remembered from the pub. 

He stopped at the double doors.

He looked back at the table.

The bottle was still there. The bottle and her empty mug.

He smiled, slow and dark. 

Three steps took him back to the table. He closed his hand over the bottle, held it up, gave it a shake.

Golden flecks of pollen shimmered in the torchlight.

Bottle in hand, he walked out of the hall and into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna lose some points for not doing all the lovely nasty things the prompt asked for, but his willpower gave out. ;) Could there be a part two? There could. There could be some come-uppance. There's some Cole/Varric/Bull reactions percolating. We'll see!


End file.
